


Where No One Has Gone Before

by spacejargon



Series: Happy Hour [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejargon/pseuds/spacejargon
Summary: Charles thinks. Combined with drinking, it's not a good idea.





	Where No One Has Gone Before

Early summer is the worst for the swampy season of the South. The air is thicker than soup boiled for three days and beginning to decompose with a raw stench of humidity and decay. The heat is coiled up and forced low to the ground as the days grow hotter, wetter, and stickier without any sort of relief.

Everyone has had it hard. Those that can go without as many layers of clothes as possible, much to the disapproval of the women. Not in the indecency of such a scandal, having men lying around with sweat-stained shirts or not wearing one at all, but, as Karen so eloquently puts it, it’s ‘fucking bullshit’.

Charles is one from the guilty party that goes without. Well, more like he tries not to as he tends to camp chores, John already abandoning his shirt by the time the sun’s up and not hearing otherwise. Charles works in cutting firewood, feeding the horses, and running all other sorts of odd jobs until the mid-afternoon sun becomes too unbearable. Not only that, but his shirt clings to him like a second skin, except it’s one that’s gritty with dirt and sweat, constantly rubbing him the wrong way until he finally gives up and takes it off.

The ladies politely avert their eyes, Miss Grimshaw having raised a fuss when Bill decided to expose his hairy chest and stomach to the rest of them for days on end. She at first had been relentless about keeping clothes on, insisting that it was for the sake of common decency, though some had to wonder if she suffered just as much as the other women in their stifling dresses did.

He tries, though, to cool himself off in the river every now and then. The heat becomes miserable to the point of having to jump in the river every hour or so, Mary-Beth and other fair-skinned individuals suffering with bright red burns across faces, chests, and arms. She herself sports a fairly deep red blush across her nose, fanning herself delicately during her breaks while Tilly helps soothe the burn with a jar of ointment from Strauss. He, too, suffered nearly as much, though his red nose was nowhere near as noticeable as poor Mary-Beth’s constant burns.

For the past two weeks, the heat has only worsened. Charles tries to help out where he can when others complain of exhaustion, more trips made to town in the mornings to help things along with food and countless jars of ointment. John finds a nasty burn across his shoulders and back after the second day of the intense heat, yowling that night when Abigail deigned to hold him down and put something on it while he blistered horribly.

Molly remained to be the only one without a sunburn. Sean cursed his Irish paleness, sunburned from the tips of his ears to the tops of his feet before noon each time he spent the day in the sun. Once, over dinner in the muggy air that kept Dutch’s tent flaps closed with Molly’s insistence, Sean reckoned that she’d burn alive if she so much as set foot outside the tent. He’d gotten a stern look from Karen that quickly melted away, laughter garnered from the rest of his audience as he showed off his burns proudly. Badges of Irish pride, he called them, and that was the end of it.

Arthur is a surprising throw into the mix. Charles hasn’t spoken to him since the heat started, though not for the wont of keeping away. Rather, two weeks ago Arthur had been heavily drunk, the drunkest Charles had ever seen him, and…

Charles shakes his head, dismissing the memory as he wipes sweat from his brow. Whatever Arthur had wanted then, he can’t say for certain. Arthur had been beyond drunk, and to hold him to it wouldn’t be fair. Worse still, Arthur seemed to have no recollection of that night to comfort him with the hangover that lasted for three days afterward. But even then, Arthur hadn’t said a word to him.

It is strange that he notices this sort of thing. Now, without Arthur seeking him out at least a few times a day, Charles notices the absence. Finds himself pausing when he’s chopping firewood at dawn and Arthur’s tent is empty, but Arthur hasn’t come over and started a light conversation. Then, later on before the heat starts to kick in, he catches himself looking—for what, he’s not certain—and then remembers that Arthur used to say something to him before heading out. Nothing substantial, but it always felt like Arthur mentioned it just to make Charles aware of his comings and goings.

Around dinnertime, when Charles grabs a bowl long after everyone else, he doesn’t find company at the fire on the outskirts of camp. Before his guard shift, Arthur and he would talk for a minute or so, sometimes passing time where nothing would be said. And then Arthur would leave him to it, to do it all again the next morning.

Sweat drips into his eyes as Charles brings himself back. John works tirelessly beside him, a wet towel draped over his back as he helps with the wagon wheels. Raising a hand, Charles squints and glances around, finding nothing when he wipes his forehead with his shirt.

“You’re soaked, Charles,” John coughs from behind him, sighing deeply with a grunt. “Go cool off, you’re makin’ me miserable just lookin’ at ya.”

Charles hammers the wheel onto the spoke with one good swing, considering John’s words. It’s mid-afternoon, just around three when the sun is at its worst.

“I’ll be alright,” Charles clears his throat, feeling the beginnings of a burn on the skin of his shoulders. His hair sticks to his back, messy despite being tied back and stuck to the sweat that drips off him from dawn to dusk. “It’ll feel worse if I do now.”

John barks a harsh laugh. “You got that right,” he mutters darkly, then straightens up. A groan catches between his teeth, the towel on his back sliding over his delicate skin. His eyes move where Charles doesn’t follow. “Damn, Morgan looks worse than I do.”

Curiosity tugs at him, so he stands and follows John’s eyes to Pearson’s wagon where Arthur’s shirt clings to his back wetly. He’s foregone his usual jacket, a light blue striped shirt with rolled up sleeves still no relief from the unrelenting heat. In his dark slacks and heavy artillery still strapped around his shoulder, he looks miserable.

“Arthur, my Lord!” Abigail’s voice breaks through, the woman herself appearing from the side of the wagon. “Look at your back! You’re a mess—get that shirt off and go sit down, I’ll bring you some of that ointment Mary-Beth and I have been using.”

Arthur splashes water on his face from the wash basin, unaware of the eyes on him as Charles looks away. It doesn’t last. “I’m fine,” comes the ragged rumble of a response, Arthur’s hat knocked back as he douses himself in water.

“Nonsense, you’re worse than John is. C’mon, get that shirt off. None of the ladies ‘round here are gonna care.” Abigail touches his arm and Arthur jolts, apologizing in a low murmur as she shakes her head in disbelief. “If we don’t get something on that, you’ll be suffering tonight.”

“I think Marston’s yowling is only a feat he’s capable of,” Arthur smirks, John shooting him a glare from beside Charles. He tips his head up, nodding to the two of them as he pulls away from the wash basin. “Boy’s like a hellcat. Don’t you worry about me none, I grew up a long time ago.”

“I heard that, you asshole!” John snarks back, grumbling under his breath as he turns to Charles. “Morgan’s still an ass, even if he ain’t around botherin’ us no more.”

Charles shrugs him off, watching from the corner of his eye as Miss Grimshaw eventually finds herself in the mix, insisting that Arthur take his shirt off once she gets a glimpse of the blistering red coloring its way up Arthur’s neck and fact. It’s not hard to imagine how much worse it is under that thin shirt.

Charles quickly shakes his head at the thought, swallows, and tries not to listen when Abigail walks Arthur over to his tent and has him strip. He keeps his eyes averted, overhearing tidbits of Abigail fighting with Arthur’s shirt until he gives up, going off about not being something people want to see.

The comment strikes him as off, familiar in a way it takes a moment to place as Arthur’s usual self-depreciating humor. The kind that isn’t meant to be funny, but Arthur shrugs it off anyway, fine with being a joke to everyone, including himself.

He doesn’t notice John’s staring until he says something. “You alright there, Charles?”

“Just need to cool off,” he answers coolly, an odd jump under his skin that itches when he takes a breath to steady himself. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Some of the guys are headin’ in town for a drink soon, on behalf of Sheriff Gray,” John spits the name with no disguise to his disgust. “Figured it best we just call it a day. I’m beat, anyway.”

Something grips him then, going by the name of curiosity. “You’re not going?”

John shrugs, hissing before adjusting the towel on his back again. “Nah, I’m exhausted. Didn’t sleep last night, and the boy’s got a sunburn, too. Abigail wants me to make sure he’s okay, so…” And he leaves it at that, Charles nodding in understanding. “But uh, most everyone’s heading out. Even Dutch, surprisin’ enough as that is.”

“Yeah,” Charles says, glancing toward the river. Mosquitoes line the coastline, but there’s no better alternative. “Good luck, then.”

“Alright, Charles,” John calls after him, leaving him to while cursing as he goes.

Charles takes on last look to the wash basin, figuring he could just splash some water on his face, but his feet decide for him as he reaches the water. He’s quick to get in, wading up to his chest before he dunks his head a few times.

His shirt peels off with some difficulty. Looking back to the shore he regrets not bringing a bar of soap to wash it, not wanting to put one of the ladies through the task when he can do it himself.

Wading around, he catches a flash of pale, burned skin, and finds Arthur emerging from his tent, Abigail fussing over him while Miss Grimshaw helps smother something onto his back. It’s a horrible bright red, as bright and angry as the sun itself and Charles feels a pang of sympathy as Arthur’s cursing can be heard from here. No amount of ointment, it looks like, can spare him the suffering he’ll have to weather through tonight.

Finally, when Miss Grimshaw points Arthur to his tent and Abigail has let go of him, Charles remembers that he’s staring. To which he dunks himself in the water, holding himself below the surface without a breath in his lungs.

The cold stings and soothes him, squeezing around his chest and pressing the urgency that he’ll need to breathe sometime. For now, Charles holds himself as long as he can, just floating in place, the muted world around him dulled in his ears.

He resurfaces and decides he’s spent enough time out here. With his shirt in hand he waits until he’s mostly out of the water to wring out his shirt, preferring not to walk around with the same brazenness that Bill does, much to the horror of others. He’ll have to do laundry soon, he realizes, as his other shirts are already covered with the red dust common in Lemoyne that never seems to get out, or in various states of disrepair.

Charles loses focus for long enough to not notice the pair of eyes on him, using the water wrought out of his shirt to wash off his feet with his boots beside him. It’s not until he grabs them, bending back up does he notice Arthur there, standing by the donations box, staring.

At _him,_ no less.

Just as quickly as Charles meets his eyes, Arthur turns, ducking his head, and heads back toward his tent. The flushed skin of his back is as red as the lobsters Charles has only seen in fancy restaurants in his few trips to Saint Denis, leaving no surface uncovered as it stretches down to the waistline of his jeans.

He stops, swallows over the knot that has found itself in his throat and tries not to think of what just happened. Not especially when his thoughts turn to two weeks ago, to which he decides _that’s enough,_ refusing to take notice of the flush creeping up his chest.

~

Perched on the outer edge of camp as per his normal habit, Charles sits alone. The camp is a ghost town, most others having headed out to town hours ago and aren’t expected back until morning. John and Charles along with several others are not among them, leaving the camp a quiet refuge before sundown.

Of those that stayed, John remains in his tent with the flaps down, grumbling about pain when Pearson served up stew and left them to it. He’d given Charles a nod and a grunt, heading back to his tent while Jack bounded after Cain, shirtless with his tiny back covered in bandages. Abigail stands off to the side when they head down to the shoreline, watching the two chase each other in the silence.

Molly remains in Dutch’s tent, the lights turned out and not a word from her ever since the argument that started before Dutch left. Charles hadn’t paid much attention, used to the evolving arguments by now and considering it none of his business when Molly finally huffed and closed herself off from the rest of them.

That leaves him and a few behind, most hanging around for guard duty while they take turns, Hosea being amongst them. He and Kieran had been talking earlier around dinner, then over by the horses as Kieran groomed Silver Dollar and listened to Hosea telling stories of his younger days. Hosea had put a bottle of whiskey in Kieran’s hand, telling him to relax with a smile as he fetched himself a beer to unwind for the night.

Charles, despite the quiet surrounding him, doesn’t find peace as easily. He partakes to a bottle tonight because his thoughts are a mess and there isn’t much he can do but ignore it until he can’t anymore. Normally it’s a few beers at night, but it’s after his guard shift and there’s a restlessness that permeates until it can be soothed with a layer of alcohol to quiet things down.

He goes back to that night. Remembers Arthur up where he sits now, hammered and closed off while sitting at the fire. How he’d been mumbling to himself before getting loud enough for Charles and virtually anyone else to hear him berating himself for being stupid. It had been concerning at that point, so Charles, originally intending to leave him to it, came back to find Arthur almost throwing himself into the fire as he retched and puked up undigested gin.

He felt some sort of concern then, but Arthur shook him off. Acted strangely, in a way a wounded animal would when confronted. So, in order to keep things civil between them, he listened to Arthur and let him go.

Until he found Arthur at his tent, bracing himself on the box of whiskey and fresh from a smoke break to clear his thoughts. It hadn’t helped because by then he’d simply called Arthur’s name, and then Arthur turned, wobbling on his feet, and reached out to him.

He could blame the kiss on drunkenness. Drunk men often don’t know what they want, so there’s nothing better to say than to blame it on the strange, undeveloped desires of the addled brain. Arthur wouldn’t want that, because at his drunkest, Arthur is hardly himself.

Charles reworks the way his brain twists around the memory. It had been sudden, and he didn’t expect it then, let alone for Arthur to remember. But he stood there as Arthur’s lips moved over his with a carelessness defined by a gentle nature that had been surprising for a man as drunk as he was. Arthur kissed him that night and Charles pulled away, figuring Arthur wouldn’t need to remember doing such, and then watched as Arthur’s face contorted into something akin to guilt and hurt.

He waved it off then. Decided to call it drunken whims and leave it be. With only alcohol in his belly now, Charles can feel the pleasant buzz of the poison lazily filtering through his veins. It gives him no clarity, but it does ease the burden of overthinking what shouldn’t have to be dissected.

Tipping back the bottle, he entertains the notion of why Arthur’s been avoiding him. He doubts that Arthur would remember it, drunk as he was, or maybe it’s because Charles has done something, and Arthur responds in kind.

The whiskey burns going down in the next few swallows as a looseness settles in Charles’ joints. A burn starting on his back and heading over his shoulders aches with the soft cotton shirt he’s got on, developing by the time he found a clean shirt to wear and avoided glancing in the direction of Arthur’s tent. One glimpse then had caught Arthur lying on his cot, the angry skin of his back bared while he slept, one hand hanging off the edge of his bed.

Charles finds contentment in sitting back and drinking, feeling no real desire to do much else while his mind tangles itself the way it does. It’s not like him, which leaves him more perplexed.

“Mind if I join you, Mr. Smith?”

Charles looks up to see Arthur, clad in a loose white shirt and with a healthy reddish tint to his cheeks despite the lack of sunlight. The firelight provides ample support for the glow of Arthur’s burnt skin, making him squint down at Charles.

“Sure,” he says, and feels no particular need to get up when Arthur carefully maneuvers himself to sit at the other end of the log. In a sign of good will, he offers the half-empty whiskey bottle in his hand, Arthur shaking his head in return as he sits with his elbows on his knees, curled over himself.

“How you been keepin’?” Arthur asks, rubbing at his arm gingerly. “Been seein’ you around camp, figured you been keepin’ busy.”

“Yeah,” Charles sighs a breath, itching for a smoke. They’re not in his pockets, he remembers, forgetting them on his bedroll where Bill has probably already snatched them. “This heat makes it hard to work.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Arthur agrees, tipping back. He’s careful not to move too much, Charles notices, wondering if it’s because of the nasty burn or for something else. “Saw John lookin’ as red as I am today, gave me shit about it.”

Charles hums and doesn’t say anything else. The whiskey lays abandoned as the buzz massages itself into his muscles and swims in his skull, decidedly more than affected as warmth spreads from his stomach all over. For a good while, nothing but silence and the cicadas around them passes between the two.

Then, biting the burnt skin of his lower lip between his teeth, Arthur sucks in a breath. It’s telling how he tenses, and Charles can’t get a read on him before Arthur finally turns to him.

“Hey, uh, listen,” Arthur starts, carefully treading as if Charles is a threat of a coiled snake waiting to strike. He’s hesitant, bending in on himself to make himself smaller. Ridiculous, for a feat to be done by a man as big as Arthur is. There is nothing small about him, Charles is more than certain of that, which makes it all that much stranger. “I, uh, I know I did somethin’ a few weeks back. I…I don’t remember it, honestly, but Hosea told me some things. And I wanted to say I’m sorry, I must’ve been a real jackass.”

He waits with bated breath until Charles realizes he’s waiting for him. Too much alcohol, he mentally gripes. With a sigh through his nose, Charles turns to face him. Meeting Arthur’s eyes is a lot easier when they’re not both pretending to be walking around something, though maybe that’s not quite it.

“You were drunk,” he clarifies, feeling no burn in his stomach besides that of alcohol like he had before, remembering that night. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“What?” Arthur withdraws, that hurt expression growing as it scars an ugly line into his lips. “No, it’s not that— _I_ know I did something, an’ even if I can’t remember what it was I did, I know it was bad. Hosea…didn’t know much, told me to ask you about it.” He pauses, then quickly amends it. “I mean, not if you don’t wanna talk about it. I just, uh, I didn’t want you to hate me for it.”

He sighs and buries his face in his hand, shoulders heaving in a slow, dying exhale. “Shit, I’m sorry. I keep messin’ things up, and I really don’t wanna lose what we got ‘tween us.”

“Between us?” Charles asks, momentarily confused. It’s the wrong thing to say, because Arthur withdraws even more and without saying it, he feels like he’s lost something here.

“Uh,” Arthur puts eloquently, meeting Charles’ gaze once again, “I…like to think of us as friends, y’know. You’re a good friend, even if I’m an ass.”

Charles nods, tracing a finger around the rim of the whiskey bottle. “You’re fine, Arthur. Don’t worry about it.”

Arthur snorts with a noise that sounds too weak to be humored. “I would if I could, Mr. Smith, but I’m a fool with a tendency to drink. I don’t know what came over me, but I wish I could apologize to you properly.”

There’s another silence stretching between them. “Do you remember anything at all from then?” Charles suddenly asks, and Arthur’s cheeks turn pink from the fire close by or the question.

“I—no, barely remember pukin’ my guts up.”

Charles pushes the bottle of whiskey away, setting it behind himself. “I tried to help you get back to your tent. You told me you’d be fine, so I let you be once you threw up. You were talking, loudly, about yourself.”

Arthur winces. “Yeah, I know. Hosea remembers that part just fine.” Shame discolors his face and darkens in his eyes. It’s a terrible look on him, arms pinching toward his waist to close himself off without saying it. But he doesn’t leave, still looking to Charles with morbid curiosity.

“I found you by my tent, I figured you were trying to get to bed.” Heat burns from his throat to his gut, images behind his eyes as Charles starts to regret drinking so much. But not enough to think things through, as he finds his rationality drifting with any sense of self-preservation. The air here is sticky and suffocating with the humidity heavy enough to rain down on them if it were possible. Instead, it’s like trying to breathe underwater. “You kissed me when I asked if you were alright.”

Arthur’s fair skin burns a deep red, hiding his face under his hat as he pinches the bridge of his nose. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. “Lord,” he curses, breaths becoming ragged as his chest heaves. “I am such a fool. I never—” He steals a glance at Charles and quickly averts his eyes, turning away. “I don’t even know how to apologize. I was being a drunk ass, but I’m sorry, Charles, that is the dumbest thing I ever done.”

Alcohol plucking through common sense, Charles doesn’t register everything. He gets to his feet then, weight pressing on his bladder as he forgets, for the moment, all of what Arthur’s said.

Arthur is mute as Charles dusts himself off and wobbles some before adjusting his balance. Then, just as he’s about to go find some bushes to relieve himself, Arthur’s voice interrupts him.

“If…If you want, Charles, I’ll leave you alone from now on,” Arthur speaks in earnest though his voice is small, as if he’s afraid of Charles lashing out at him. “Since I’ve been a real asshole to you. Y’don’t gotta deal with me anymore.”

Charles turns back to face him, mildly perplexed, but then shakes his head. He waits as Arthur lifts his eyes, waiting hopelessly for an answer.

“You’re fine,” is all Charles says, and then bends down to kiss him. Arthur goes shock still while Charles puts a hand on his shoulder to steady himself, a noise escaping him that goes ignored. Charles is only there for a brief second, tasting sweat and the aftertaste of shaving cream on his whiskey-soaked tongue.

Shortly after, Charles pulls away and wanders off, leaving Arthur redder than his sunburned skin and in a mix of confusion and horror.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

From expression alone, it’s a cocktail of one part each of confusion and horror, and three parts heartbroken as Charles bids him goodnight without another word.

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, no self-restraint. Nothing.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
